Sunday, July 30, 2006

Lucky us. Seven years after mercifully being sent out to pasture, D-Generation X has returned to delight wrestling fans with their unique brand of socially-conscious humor. A return for to the glory days of palling around with Mike Tyson and hiding Chyna's jock-strap. While HHH seems happy enough dropping the Conan act to concentrate on drenching his in-laws with simulated diarrhea, Shawn Michaels' performances rub me as insincere and awkward. Jake Roberts swearing off crack insincere. Giant Gonzales awkward.

Alas, the original Big Cheese of DX has been demoted to the role of Dopey Sidekick. "Big deal", you say. "He's goofy and lovable, like if Barney Rubble wasn't a cartoon and found a time machine and transported himself to the future and decided to become the nuttiest frat boy the Delta Chi house has ever seen." I could accept this if it wasn't for the fact that an undeniable undercurrent of apprehension grows with each and every crotch-chop Shawn thrusts from his pelvis. How am I supposed to enjoy the former Boy Toy's wee wee jokes if he can't enjoy them himself? Say what you will about the in-ring ability of chaps like Mr. Ass and the Road Dogg, but one can't deny their unwavering conviction to the tenets of the DX movement. I gather that Michaels is no longer "Down With That (TM)" and I'm sure that the aforementioned Billy Ass would not hesitate in advising him to "Suck It (TM)".

Of course, it would be perfectly logical to conclude Michaels is just burnt on searching for new thrills in angle that hasn't been funny since the time he wrestled the midget dressed like Brett Hart. However, consider for a moment that Shawn has bigger preoccupations. Namely the wrath of a jilted tag partner that isn't too happy with the direction that his career is taking. I speak of the Omnipotent One. He who holds the eternal fates of our souls in the palm of His Hand. No, not Marty Jannetty.

Despite snarky asides implying that his Big Buddy God is grudgingly tolerant of his hijinks, the HBK knows he's currently holding a one-way ticket down the river Styx. H-E Double Hockey sticks, where Satan's right hand man (no, not Marty Jannetty) Kevin Sullivan books all the matches. Your fear is warranted Michaels. The Taskmaster is currently preparing an angle that features the Sexy Boy fighting in a series of handicap matches against the Booty Man, Lock Ness, and the Yeti over the next 5,000 years. The winner will establish himself as the #1 contender for the Big Boss Man's TV Title.

Heartbreak Kid, your soul stands to pay dearly for your transitory farty party funtime here on Earth. It's not too late to repent. God has a plan.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Friday, July 21, 2006

Nothing, my darlings, raises my ire like dashed expectations. When I first arrived in the sprawling Worker's Paradise that is Portland, Oregon, my very first act was to acquire one of the Twenty-First Century's greatest technological fruits: On Demand Cable. It was there, hidden deep in the bowels of the "Other Sports" menu, that I first encountered Samoa Joe.

It was a match against the redoubtable A.J. Styles at some goddamn Pay-Per-View or other, and it was magnificent. The peak moment was when Joe had Styles outside the ring, set up for a powerbomb. Too grand a competitor for such a cliched move, Joe opted instead to swing Styles around, slamming A.J.'s head at full force into the fucking crowd barrier. I felt a moment of vertigo, a chill shooting through me. "Christ," I thought, "I just watched a Samoan murder someone on national television." It felt good.

The match eventually ended with Joe victorious, and I immediately downed my vodka and cued up the next one. It was that match where Joe knees Christopher Daniels in the head about forty-five times, causing Daniels's head to split open like a grape. I started calling everyone I knew, singing the praises of this tubby monstrosity. I had a new favorite wrestler.

And then the bloat set in. I watched, dismayed, as Joe waddled through a series of lackluster matches, steadfastly refusing to sell to any of the fine competitors assembled to test him. Alright, to be fair, the only decent booking he got was a match against my beloved Sabu, but that should have been a classic. Instead, we got a contractually obligated snorefest in which Sabu was struggling manfully to avoid any serious injuries before he could start blowing his WWE checks on weed and pills.

From there, Joe took a sharp left into Tag Team Hell, backing up Sting, of all people, in a soul-deadening feud against Jeff Jarrett and Wrestling's Answer To Gary Busey, Scott Steiner. My favorite wrestler was now being squandered against washed up TNA pillbags of the lowest order. I transferred my affections to the more deserving Sanjay Dutt.

Now, however, I receive word that Samoa Joe is booked against The War Machine Rhino on next week's Impact. I will watch with bated breath. And if that fat fucking tub doesn't put on a decent match against Rhino, it's all over.

Last night while watching the Impact Zone, I was contemplating how my behavior, choices, world view, and moral compass have become more enlightened since TNA programming commenced on Spike-TV. So I decided to develop a list to share with the loyal readers of Arabian Facebuster to pinpoint the somewhat subtle yet profound changes that have occurred. By no means is this list exhaustive, in fact, it merely scratches the surface of how I have matured.

1. I now sleep in a six-sided bed.2. Like Mike Tenay, I wear a tuxedo morning, noon, and night.3. Instead of exchanging a high-five or chest bump with another fan at a sporting event, I reciprocate the gesture with a Black Hole Slam.4. I take my vacations exclusively at Universal Studios, Orlando FL.5. When driving past a particularly nasty traffic accident, I roll down my window and yell "GORE, GORE, GORE" at the bewildered, often critically wounded, motorists.6. I have bulked up significantly with the help of Morphoplex: Ultimate Fat Burner . . . I now possess the physique and muscle definition of Don West.7. My girlfriend and I have incorporated Petey Williams' "Canadian Destroyer" into our foreplay repertoire.

My loyalty and heartfelt gratitude goes out to TNA for helping me attain a higher level of self-awareness and contentment.

Balls Mahoney's dastardly smile should be plastered on billboards and periodicals across the country . . . no, not as an unsettling reminder that a new breed has been unleashed Tuesday nights on Sci-Fi . . . but rather as a cautionary example to America's impressionable young people that prolonged methamphetamine use causes irreparable tooth decay.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Two weeks after the fact, I must concede that The Big Show's ECW Championship reign is, apparently, real. It is not, as I had hoped, some sort of horrible dream brought on by excessive consumption of saturated fats and Iron City Beer. The Big Shew (to be pronounced in a sneering Ed Sullivan Voice, for those reading aloud at home) has defended his title once, and looks set to do it again tonight against The Undertaker. I need hardly add that this is not exactly a Match Of The Year contender.

Quite, in fact, the opposite. The ECWWE's bookers have of late been displaying a level of hubris that borders on the pathological. Big Show versus Ric Flair for the ECW title. Hogan versus Orton at Summerslam. John Cena versus Umaga (Christ, ANYONE versus Umaga). The WWE is a carnival of snores, each match more appallingly dull than the last. I may have to change the "Worst Match of the Year" award into a "Worst Match of the Fiscal Quarter" award just to keep pace with the awfulness.

"Apollo," I hear you cry, "Surely the Ric Flair/Shew match wasn't THAT bad." Well, my dears, I possess enough character to admit when I am wrong. The Flair title shot was perfectly watchable, for one simple reason. Both combatants bled like stuck pigs. There were trickles of blood. Gushes of blood. Geysers of blood. Blood whose presence on basic cable struck me as fairly remarkable.

Now, I'm no savage. I would never argue that simply bleeding can make a match great, or even good. Far from it. I WILL argue that copious amounts of gratuitous bloodshed can make a mediocre match at least faintly watchable.

That said, matching two waddling behemoths like The Shew and a past-his-prime Undertaker in Main Event Action will strain even my Herculean endurance. That is, of course, unless the level of bloodshed becomes truly BIBLICAL. I want to see the sins of the ECW faithful and the WWE Philistines alike washed away on tides of vital fluid. I want rivers, oceans, worlds, UNIVERSES of blood. I want to see The Undertaker, old and enfeebled as he is, blinded by the flow from his own gaping head wound. I want his normally pasty countenance to turn utterly PORCELAIN from blood loss. I want fresh infusions of blood flown in from special Fetus Farms, grown and sacrificed just so The Undertaker can keep bleeding. I want all these things and more.

And I want The Big Show to bleed like the big, slow, dumb, lazy, desperate bloodbag that he is.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Last night's RAW was well on its way to being its usual barely watchable self. My companion and I drank heavily, hoping to insulate ourselves against the WWE's patented brand of Sports Entertainment Vacuum. Immobilized by alcohol and tedium, we gaped helplessly as another installment of the Viscera-Charlie Haas-Lillian Garcia soap opera heaved itself, gasping, onto the airwaves.

I made a slurred, awkard attempt to explain my theory of Lillian as existential cypher, but to no avail. I sighed, kissed my few remaining brain cells goodbye, and settled in to watch the aesthetic carnage. Then, a magic miracle happened. A magic miracle riding a unicorn-pegasus, covered in pink glitter, with a rainbow tail, trotting gleefully along the equator of a planet-sized disco ball.

Lillian declared that she "just want[ed] to be friends" with the two grapplers (neatly removing herself from the storyline and resuming her duties as my personal wrestling avatar), at which point Viscera slammed the holy mule-fuck out of her. Charlie Haas spent a brief moment miming disgust at the shocking act of misogyny, before grinning at Viscera. The two heaving, burly fellows clasped each other in a passionate embrace and tongue-kissed for twelve full minutes.

Or not. But the INTENT was clearly there.

I should explain. Ten years ago, after eating a bad pot of chili and passing out in front of the TV, my friend Matt experienced a vivid hallucination in which he attended a New Year's Eve Party with Viscera. Vis was dressed in a vibrant yellow rain slicker and was FLAMBOYANTLY GAY. Once Matt's fever broke, he recounted this tale to our group of grappling enthusiasts. The idea seized us with a fierce and implacable grip. It was, we felt, a concept whose time had come. A wrestling gimmick for the twenty-first century. A Hero For The Ages: Big Gay Viscera. A cleansing fire, sent to burn out the ugly homophobia that has long tainted pro wrestling. A Big Fire. A Sexy Fire. A Great Big Sexy Gay Mountain of a Fire.

For years, we waxed rhapsodic over the concept. When, we wondered, would the WWE take the first step? It seemed so clear to us. Viscera has been criminally underused for his whole career, waddling from gimmick to gimmick, never winning the hearts and minds of the fans. Why not, we pondered, go gay?

And then, last night... there it was. A tentative, trembling step in the right direction. A brief flicker of current passed between Viscera and Charlie Haas. Yes, they stopped short of an embrace. Yes, wrestling still has a long way to go before an obese gay black man can truly be accepted by Mass Fandom. Yes to these things and more... but a crucial first step nonetheless. We, dear readers, have witnessed the dawning of a bold new era. Please join us here at Arabian Facebuster in praying that the WWE do not lose their balls.